


Mistranslated

by eadunne2



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, Sketches, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eadunne2/pseuds/eadunne2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky worked so hard keeping his distance, setting up the boundaries he thought he knew existed, dark, harsh lines separating what he wanted and what he could have, that he almost missed the truth. Wished he had, in retrospect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistranslated

**Author's Note:**

> <3

Steve started the sketches because Bucky was a bookworm. (Bucky was a bookworm because he started reading to Steve those cold nights when Steve couldn’t sleep for coughing, and Buck couldn’t sleep for fear.) So while Bucky read, Steve would sketch out the titles in beautiful script, curls and loops, slashes and strokes, and Bucky would tuck them in the front of the book when he finished, dozens of makeshift covers, hands too gentle, too fond with the paper. (“It’s just a damn sketch, Buck.”)

Then for Bucky’s birthday Steve made him a beautiful card, just “Happy Birthday, Bucky” in cursive that flowed like water, and something about it reminded Buck of the way Steve’s lats and ribs gave way to his waist in a delicate curve, made his chest ache. (Push it down, Bucky boy.) The lyrics from a song that Bucky liked scribbled in the space at the bottom of the newspaper in blocks like fists while the two of them slouched on the couch watching TV. (Just coincidence that when Steve came back from getting the beer he ended up a whole cushion closer to Bucky than before.) Letters that were vines, licking flames, home: “Merry Christmas.”

A prayer for Steve’s ma when she died, in trembling script like the steam over too-hot coffee. (How can ink scratches make someone cry?) 

Best of all, though, were the messages Steve left for Bucky, in his lunches, in his books, on his bed: “Don’t forget”, “Thought you’d like this”, “Maybe one day…”, “Remember when…”, “Why don’t we…?”, “You’re an ass.” They’d talk about them in the kitchen later, laughing, Steve touching Buck’s arm with excruciating familiarity. It was a tortuous heaven, but Bucky knew that was the price of being a piece of shit lucky enough to live with an angel. 

Hundreds of them over the two years they lived together, and they’d been friends for over a decade, so there was plenty of source material. Bucky learned to ignore the aching in his cheeks, his chest, learned stay sitting when Steve came out of the shower, droplets kissing his skin and leaving wet trails that Bucky’s tongue wanted to travel, learned to go out if Steve said he was going out on a date (Don’t ever ask her name), learned to clench his jaw...There was comfort enough in his little scraps of paper, carefully hoarded into a shoe box over the years. It got to the point (after Bucky had yelled at Steve with sincerity that surprised them both, for trying to throw one of his little script doodles away) where Steve just threw them into the box if they were lying around for more than a few days. It had to be enough.

Bucky worked so hard keeping his distance, setting up the boundaries he thought he knew existed, dark, harsh lines separating what he wanted and what he could have, that he almost missed the truth. Wished he had, in retrospect. 

He’d forgotten about Steve’s date, work was long, and Steve had said something particularly agonizing that morning (“You deserve to be happy, Buck,” with that fucking gentle look, the one Bucky knew he couldn’t possibly accept), and he’d been chewing it over ever since. Happy? What did that look like? A life he couldn’t have, could never deserve. (Suck it up, man. What’s gotten into you?), and when he stumbled through the door to make a beeline for the coffee maker in hopes that he might be able to stay conscious long enough to enjoy Steve’s company for an hour or two before sleep took him, he tripped at the sight that met him.

Steve’s back was exquisite, confusingly delicate for something so muscular, and he was straddling a person, pinning him to the couch. 

Pinning him. 

Him.

And Bucky tripped, literally fell to his knees, startling both men on the couch into turning around. 

“S-sorry,” he stuttered, scrambling to his feet. “Didn’t know you’d be home.” He gave a small grimacing smile to the guy beneath Steve, the fucking guy beneath Steve, fucking goddamn fuck everything, and walked past them to his room. 

All of it. Wrong. He was suddenly incredibly glad he’d never come out, he could build a goddamn castle in his fucking closet, never leave, because the only person that mattered in that regard was otherwise occupied. Not only occupied, but a liar. Never breathed a fucking word about being gay, or bi, or whatever the shit he was, to his best fucking friend in the world. (Bucky ignored the voice that said, “So did you.”)

“Buck? What’re you doing?”

Steve’s voice. What’re you doing? Small. Sad. Didn’t match his beautiful man at all.

What was he doing? Bucky looked down at his hands. They were full of clothes, and a half full suitcase lay haphazard on his bed. Packing? Leaving? Running away?

“I’m...I...gotta go.”

“Because I’m gay?” 

Bucky’s jaw dropped, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Steve shifted, toeing at the carpet and Bucky stared him down, memorizing. He was still shirtless, and the lines of his torso moved smooth beneath softest skin. “I dunno. You never asked.”

“I never-” Bucky let out a huff. “You like this guy?” There was an edge to his voice he’d never heard before, the sharpness of a blade, or the tip of a pen, a plea, a prayer hidden as a challenge. 

Steve straightened and shoved his hands in his pockets, bristling. He’d heard it, too. Met Bucky’s stare for seconds on end, searching, and Bucky caught the twitch near his mouth, between his brows, like maybe for a breath he was about to cry, but it was just his imagination, then said, “Yeah. I do.”

The air rushing out of Bucky’s lungs startled him. He wished Steve would’ve hit him, given him some physical pain to feel and let heal. He knew this was going to ache for the rest of his life. All those years, and Bucky loved him, not just most, but best, with every broken piece of himself, through good and bad, but this, seeing him love someone else...he couldn’t.

“You got a problem with that?” Steve spat, and Bucky thought was weird to hear a tone like begging in his voice when Steve was so clearly pissed off. 

(It’s fine. He’s fine.) 

“Nah, man. Go back to your date.” He had to hold still because it was taking literally all of his energy to keep his voice steady, but with the sentence delivered, he turned back to his dresser and started yanking out the rest.

Behind him he heard a noise, wondered if Steve stubbed his toe or something, then: “You’re a piece of fuckin’ work, Barnes,” and the sound of his door slamming. 

It’s the last thing he hears for months.

\--

Some things have changed. Bucky’s body looks very different, more built from working out in an effort to avoid spiraling out of control. His hair’s longer, he wears it in a ponytail most days. His entire torso is inked up. A shrine? A prayer? A punishment? He doesn’t know.

(He’s out. Decided ‘fuck it’ a year after he moved out, couldn’t breathe or sleep or think until he named it, and then, suddenly, he was a little lighter. Still drowning, but better somehow.)

Some things are exactly the same. He still loves Steve more than air or light. There will never be a reprieve from that, and he’s accepted that. Who would he be without it? 

(Does he think of me? I should say sorry. I don’t deserve....Could I even bear…)

Four fucking years. Then one night he’s at a fundraiser that Tony’s throwing, and there’s a body at the bar, shoulders and nape of neck and elbows and hands that Bucky couldn’t forget if he tried. (He’s tried, oh god, he’s tried so fucking hard.) 

He can’t breathe. Looks for the exits, tugs his tie off and pops a few buttons. God, where did all the oxygen go? His escape is blocked though, when a voice, familiar and just a little rougher says, “Bucky?”

He’s never been able to resist that sound, and he turns, hoping it’s a smile he’s got on his face. “Steve.”

Just as beautiful (who’s he kidding, ten times as beautiful) as before, Steve smiles, takes his hand, asks, “How’ve you been?” 

Maybe if Steve hadn’t have touched him, he’d have been fine. Maybe he would have been able to smile and lie with all that practice he’s had over the years, but he can’t, just can’t. Steve’s hand is rough and warm and familiar, and he’s close enough now that Bucky can smell him, different cologne but same Steve, this man that’s given him comfort and affection and laughter and love… 

Bucky tries to take a step back and tugs on his collar, can see in Steve’s face he knows Buck’s about to run when something at the base of Bucky’s throat catches his eye. “Buck...what is that?”

Bucky knows. It’s a song lyric that Steve had sketched for him around Christmas their first year living together, and just next to it, in bold strokes, from a fucking grocery receipt on the way to the hardest meeting of the year. “It’s gonna be ok.” 

“N-nothing, I-good to see you Rogers.” What a lie.

(Call me on it, please Stevie, call me out. I can’t-)

He makes his escape, and this time it works. Stumbles out into the night towards his car. 

“Bucky!” 

Heavy steps, familiar (how many mornings did they run together?), and a hand on his shoulder, spinning him around. 

Bucky might have kept running, except for as Steve reaches for his collar again, he says the word, with tears in his voice, “Please.” He nods. Waits as familiar fingers dance down his chest, undoing button after button until his shirt hangs open, and tugs it off.

“Buck…” Steve breathes his name like a benediction. Maybe that’s what the tattoos were. 

Bucky’s entire torso and most of his arms are covered, in lettering that Steve had done years ago on scraps around their apartment. They look cohesive, his artist is incredible, knows structure like no one else, made them into a beautiful chest piece and sleeves. 

Steve circles him, angel or vulture, and when soft fingers brush between Bucky’s shoulder blades, he cries out. “Fuck!”

“What is this, Buck?” 

He can’t see Steve’s face, but his voice sounds steady, so he tries to match it, “You know what it is. You fuckin’ wrote ‘em,” he says, trying to laugh. 

Apparently, it’s not a joke, because Steve slams him into the car behind him with a hand to his chest. “Why?” he grinds out, almost a shout, and Bucky’s afraid he might have a heart attack.

He didn’t hit his head, but maybe he’ll remember it that way so he has an excuse. Shrugs. “Seemed like the thing to do for the guy I’ve always loved.”

A broken sound scrapes out of Steve’s throat, and he collapses into Bucky’s arms and against his mouth.

They kiss like they’re drowning (they are), like they’re starving (of course), teeth and tongue and bitten off whimpers caught against one another’s lips. 

“Why did you leave!” Steve demands, pulling back. 

“I thought you were straight, ‘s a good excuse to keep my distance, but you’re gay and don’t want me? I couldn’t-”

“Don’t want you?” He’s shouting now. “I’ve wanted you since I was thirteen years old. I knew I was gay because of you!”

“Why didn’t you say?” 

“I thought you could never-” He stops, nervous, doesn’t matter, Bucky crashes their lips together and winds his arms around him, holding their bodies tight together. Doesn’t let go as he says, “Come home with me,” and Steve nods, looks down at Bucky with hunger. 

“You know what this means?’

Bucky shakes his head and bites his lip. Steve runs a hand up Buck’s chest til it’s wrapped every so lightly around his throat before leaning in and whispering, “You. Are. Mine.”

Bucky’s knees give out, but Steve catches him against the car. 

“Always was, Stevie.” 

Later, Steve tastes his art across Bucky’s skin. Rests his head on Buck’s sternum and cries, only a little, for the time they lost. He promises not to waste anymore.

Comes home a week later with a tattoo below his collarbone. Bucky sucks a mark next to it. Bites his neck. Kisses his temples, his eyelids as he falls asleep in their bed. 

Whispers. “Mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me at seasless.tumblr.com


End file.
